Its Alright, I'm Just a Little Crazy
by HobbitLover4eva
Summary: A casefic set in mid-season 4, sometime after 4x11 Heaven and Hell. In the nonstop hunting binge Dean is on after the fiasco with Anna Milton, he and Sam check out an intriguing case of vanishing people in Salem, Missouri. Once there they unexpectedly stumble into Jo, who reveals she and Ellen came to check out this case too, and Ellen is now one of the missing.
1. Chapter 1

**_Title_ : **_Its Alright, I'm just a little Crazy_

 _ **Summary:** __Set in mid-season 4, after 4x11 Heaven and Hell. In the nonstop hunting crusade Dean is on after the fiasco with Anna, he and Sam check out a an intriguing case of vanishing people in Salem, Missouri. Once there they unexpectedly stumble into Jo, who reveals her mother Ellen is one of the missing._

 _ **Warnings:** Violence, Kidnapping, a WHOLE LOT of Angst, Romantic Tension, and Cursing._

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _It goes without saying I don't own anything, except the plot._

 ** _Author's note:_** _my first case fic! This story aims to be like a missing episode for Ellen and Jo's 2 year disappearance. Because I don't believe they just stopped talking to the Winchesters for 2 years. You clearly see in season 5 Ellen and Jo knew were aware the brothers were out there, so consider this a missing episode. Plus, season 4 could've used a Jo and Ellen appearance ;) This is not my usual writing style, I'm playing around with different styles right now, and for some reason I feel like this type. Maybe I'll use it from now one._

* * *

Dean hates old houses. He's always hated them, their scary as hell creaking sounds that can be a person or a bloodthirsty Casper for all you know, the musty old mold smell, the freaking cobwebs in every stupid corner, the layers of dust that has him pinching his nose, and lastly the magnetic pull all these types of houses have for evil bastards to hang out in.

His finger clings to the edge of his shotgun trigger as he rests against the grimy walls, every hair on his head is rigid and spiked waiting for any attack by the psycho he and his brother are tracking through these halls. It won't take long for him to come back. But his hostages have escaped the house by now. All that's left is to get rid of the psycho bastard.

It's far too quiet in the hallways, menacingly quiet. Like that freak is sitting, watching them from the shadows. Waiting.

A sharp squawk just behind him sends his tense heart into a frenzy, he swings around and jabs the butt of the shotgun outward—into nothing but air. There's nothing behind them.

"Dean." Sam's tight whisper beside him is pinched with apprehension, feeding off Dean's roaring tension and assuming the worst. Sam has his finger trigger ready.

Dean holds up his hand, stepping back to peer through the open doorways into the old bedrooms on either side of them, his body is rigid with fear. But he doesn't see the enemy in the any of the abandoned rooms. Only peeling and moldy spotted walls, boarded up fireplaces, a few rusty iron bedposts, a forgotten and dusty old fashioned wheelchair, and piles of nonsensical garbage heaped on the floors.

"Nothing in there." He mutters, pulling back from the doorway. Just in time to see Sam level the gun at his head, shouting, "Behind you!" Dean doesn't even get the chance to act before his body is pitched backward, overthrown by monstrous strength. He's slammed into the unforgiving solid floor, shotgun flying from his grasp and skittering down the hall. Dimly, he hears Sam call out for him but it sounds muffled, as if he's talking through water. Pain explodes along Dean's spine, spreading rapidly across his body. Its potent, disabling power overwhelms his brain utterly, he's certain his back is broken. Shit… his mind scrambles to recover, get his body back up and fight that bastard.

Sam's strangled gasp brings Dean's eyelids snapping open, freaking goddamn vision is blurry and chaotic. Shapes are spinning and swimming, which means he hit his head bad. Two forms manage to detach and become clear—one figure has the other pinned to the wall, lifted on his feet as he strangles it. And it only takes seconds for Dean to recognize the other struggling figure, those hands desperately clawing at his attacker's stranglehold, the features twisting with the torturous agony of a slow death.

Dean forces his torso upwards even as a thousand needles of agony stab his flesh, none of it fucking matters. His voice rises in a crippled yell. "S..Sam!"

* * *

 **A week earlier….**

"Hey, get up." That gruff order and the curt swat on the back tears Sam Winchester out of actual honest-to-God sleep. He jerks and shifts in the Impala's stiff backseat. Its length is half as long as he is and the stern, uncomfortable leather makes Sam wonder how the hell he ever slept on this through his childhood. But he's determined to try and burrows deeper into the seat as he grumbles sullenly. "Want…sleep."

"You can sleep later. Come on, I found a case." Dean is at his normal place in the Impala's driver seat, all take-charge and kick ass even at pitch black 4AM in the morning. For a moment the tension free atmosphere takes him back to the old days. Where there's no hell trauma, no angels, no Ruby, no secrets, just the two of them trekking across the country hunting. Expect the sickening memories of Dean's wrecked confession about Hell return. Sam rubs his eyes, sacrificing his earnest need for sleep and finally eases himself upwards.

Dean, true to form, has completely brushed any memory, every vulnerable emotion of that wayside breakdown from the surface. Just diverted to his default setting, the one of the hunter.

In the couple weeks since then, they've hopped from hunt to hunt with an insane pace merging on dangerous. The Impala has become their motel because his older brother shows such a loathing for stopping longer than a minute.

It barely had taken any time for Sam to recognize the same tail-spinning pattern Dean had taken after Dad died. He's running away again. Trying to bury his shame over the ugly truth, all the devastating emotions he can't deal with. And hunting, saving people has become his way of therapy.

So being the reason why Dean made that fucking deal, the _cause_ of his brother being ripped apart and tormented for 30 years, Sam gladly will run himself into the ground if it brings Dean any relief. "So…" he can't stop the yawn as he finally sits up and peers blearily over Dean's seat. "What's the case?"

"Little town called Salem, Missouri: 3 people have vanished without a trace. An ordinary Joe the Electrician and two kids both under 10. All disappear within a few days of each other." Dean reached backward and handed his brother a small stack of articles he'd cut from the newspaper.

Sam rubs his crusty eyes, turns on his pocket flashlight and slowly starts soaking in every written detail. "So…" his head nearly splits with a great yawn, "what makes you think this is our thing?"

"Average Jo and the kids disappeared from the same area, the woods outside down." Dean mutters and turns the car key. His Baby rumbles with a throaty growl as she wakes from sleep. "And if you keep reading, you'll see—"

"This happened 17 years ago." Sam finishes, humming solemnly at the headline tucked to the side. **5 Salem residents still missing 17 years later.** His hazel eyes skim the rest of the article, snagging on a skeleton of a pattern. "All vanished from the woods too. The time cycle's not right for a wendigo."

"And wendigo's don't eat kids. I don't know what kind of forest dwelling monster eats both kids and adults, they usually prefer one or the other. But I figure we can find out a lot more in the town. Police station's a good start. Small towns can't keep secrets long."

"Why is anything called Salem always getting some type of crap?" Sam snorts over the captions. "It's like it's a curse."

"Evil bastards have a sick sense of the dramatic maybe. You notice Victorian style houses? Always haunted." a sound of grim amusement, the first from Dean in weeks. "But please, no freaking witches in this town." He pleads to the air and shakes his head emphatically. "Give me a werewolf, shapeshifter, or poltergeist, heck even a freaking demon. Anything but a witch."

That sounds so much like Dean—when their worst problems were witches and wendigo's-that Sam smiles. Even manages to keep himself from turning sour and straying to fucking Lilith or the breaking seals. Because it's been far, far too long since it was just the two of them.

"Woods." Dean pipes up suddenly, shaking his head. He's fighting off the looming monster of sleep, Sam can tell. "That's classic horror movie setting right there. Seriously, why do kids even play in them? And stupid environmental nuts don't wanna chop them down? If they only knew what's really in them."

"I guess they wanna save the oxygen." Sam shrugs, eyelids slyly beginning to sag against his will. "Trees…release oxygen in photosynthesis."

"Who cares?" Dean snorts, head swinging back to brother and pauses as he notices Sam's half-lidded, heavy eyes. His brow furrows. "You wanna catch some shuteye before we get there? It'll be at least a couple hours. And you look like crap." It's an abrupt change from his carelessness of just minutes earlier and Sam can hear the remorse in his brother's offer.

"M'fine." He mumbles pushing his eyelids open by sheer willpower. He can't play this role anymore, the shuffling little brother looked after by an over-protective brother who's too freaking selfless to give a crap about his own life. Can't allow himself to keep taking from Dean so selfishly when his brother's barely keeping it together. That decision made, he reaches for the backseat's door handle and preys the car door open. Then slides out the seat to the outside, stumbling on jelly legs to the passenger side.

Dean stares as Sam falls into the seat beside him. "Fine?" he huffs incredulously. "Says the guy drunk walking."

Sam's ignoring him as he pulls the Impala's door shut, body wearily sinking into the seat. "Hey." He glances thoughtfully towards his brother. "Been meaning to ask you, you heard anything at all from Anna?"

There were so few safe subjects for them these days but he figured their new friend, human—turned-angel was worth a shot.

It's still so dark around them, he can't make out Dean's features. There's no answer from his brother. Sam does glimpse Dean's arm lower and kick the Impala into gear. The Impala lurches and ambles forward, Dean turns the wheel and heads northward.

After such long silence, Sam doesn't expect a response from Dean anymore. So Dean shocks him with his sudden mutter, "No, I haven't. Pretty sure she's on the run, so she wouldn't risk stopping. They still want her dead." the low, hoarse scratch of guilt is barely detectable.

It's always ripped something out of Dean when they can't save someone, much less one he had obviously bonded with. And his burning hunger to do good has only grown since Hell. 10 years of torturing souls is surely at the root of it, even if Dean would sooner face angels and demons unarmed then admit it. No, Sam realizes, he's pouring it all into these hunts. Sam sighs gloomily as something else dawns on him too. This hunting binge isn't just for therapy, it's a kind of atonement.

* * *

Salem, Missouri is an older, lulling, rural town with just large enough of a populace to be officially dubbed a city, full of mom-and-pop- shops, farmers markets and one major high school. This place is well-acquainted with the common society parasites of drugs, domestic violence and drunk-driving. Murders though—are not that common. People vanishing without so much a scream even more so, and for a community like this like it's a panic-inducing nightmare. And as panicking families do, they look to the law for answers. Protection. With all that extreme pressure on the department to find their missing loved ones, every single officer in Salem's field combined with neighboring jurisdictions called in by the Sheriff are dispatched.

Officer Jake Adams was one of the few patrolmen left stationed in the woodlands outside the city. He'd accepted the orders earnestly at first. Wanted so badly to hope—like so many others—that he would be the lucky one to find some missing key evidence like tire tracks. Or even better, maybe stumble on the sicko coming back for more victims.

That was 6 hours ago, after he and other patrolmen meticulously searched every inch of all areas in and surrounding the sight the kids were abducted from. There were no clues to be found, nothing but dead leaves. So here he is now sitting in his damn patrol car, staring out agitatedly into the trees and not able to shake the nagging prickling he's missed something.

Officer Adams looks out over the next few miles of woodlands ahead. The whole woods has already been raked over with a fine-toothed comb by hundreds of search and rescue volunteers in the hours after the kids went missing. But that's just it, they're only volunteers. They might've walked right past something ordinary and insignificant, expecting instead for suspicious and foreboding.

With new energy, the officer switches his cruiser's engine on and begins to roll down the small back road that snakes through the forest. Arm reaching out for the dispatch radio, he calls into it. "Units 51 and 49, this Unit 53, Adams here. I'm gonna head south from ya'll. Search the next area."

His radio suddenly squeaks, sending out the worst stream of scratching static he's ever heard in his life. Whatever reply his fellow officers send is completely lost. Adams frowns and tries fiddling with it, smacking it, changing the frequency, turning it off and on, the technical works. No luck, the radio won't be fixed, like it's been purposely taken out. "The hell?" he mutters and lowers his head, glaring the damn thing over perplexedly.

Eventually he decides it isn't worth running off the road for so he shifts his focus again to the road. And it's that moment he sees it. Tucked far back from the road, its illustrious architecture overgrown almost entirely by a shroud of ivy and bramble, was the largely forgotten century old rehabilitation home.

Adams stares over the old piece of Salem's history, attention sucked in by curiosity. Huh. So the building still seems to be standing even after all these decades of abandonment. How the heck has it been left untouched for the most part by trouble-seeking teens? Granted there are some broken windows here and there but no spray-painted graffiti defamed the building structure, no beer bottles or trash outside either. Kids haven't even broken into the place either, at least not for years. Pretty weird, since this kind of territory is prime for kids to fool around in. But isn't it good they haven't? No telling how much rot and decay has eroded the floors and walls, probably toxic mold too.

The place is an unsettling, ugly shadow of the refuge it purportedly used to be for those who stayed there. His grandmother would be devastated to see it if she was still here, being that she spent half her life in that very home. Kinda makes him feel strange staring at something he has such a familial link to.

A stabbing pain suddenly ripples through his forehead, Adams grimaces and lifts his hand to rub his throbbing skin. Damn migraines. His other arm extents for the bottle of ibuprofen he keeps in the glove compartment. And that's the last thing he remembers for a long while.

* * *

Rachael Roche whimpers, slurping down congestive tears and curls herself up tighter into a ball, face smushed against her legs. Maybe she'll make herself wake up soon. Yeah, just wake up back in the woods—maybe she just fell and hit her head and this all a nightmare… That's the endless stream of thoughts rolling around in her brain over and over, like a cycle.

There's a sharp creak somewhere in the dusty attic rafters and Rachel stiffens with terror, fingernails stabbing into her legs, her entire body petrified he was coming back…petrified that terrible man was coming to kill her, kill them all—

"Rachael." A whisper close beside her caused the little girl to cringe and completely dissolve into tears. A stricken silence sits there with her until hesitant, awkward fingers touch her shoulder. "C-Come on, Rachael. Don't cry." The whisper again, trembling and scratchy with its own fear. David. Rachael hiccups down sobs and shifts around, her own hands unclenching and reaching to feel for David's body beside her. Her grasp catches his arms pretty soon, and she latches onto the rest of him, crushing her face into his jacket.

"I—I'm so scared, David..." she gulps and shudders, suddenly so _so_ grateful that moment he's there with her. "H-He'll come back…he's gonna hurt us—he's gonna hurt us—"

"Shh-sshh, hey." Another murmur, a grown man's and both children lurch at it. Rachael shrieks and clutches at her friend for dear life, David turns stiff as a board and locks his arms around her in a death-grip.

"Whoa, whoa, it's just me, Mike. Remember?" the murmur stays low, gentle, doesn't rise in panic from their shouts. And in another moment, both kids remember Mike—Mr. Crawford—'s here too. Mr. Crawford is David's neighbor, and he went missing first.

Mr. Crawford crawls forward slowly, across the murky room to the children's' side. "Hey, everything's going be alright, ok?" they can see Mr. Crawford's face a little now but it's his vibrant blue eyes, always steadfastly calm, that stand out against the cold dark. "I'm going to get you two out somehow." He stretches his hand out and lays it over Rachael's, still fisted in David's shirt. "You're gonna go back home, back to your parents, back to school. And someday, this is gonna be just a bad memory, I promise."

Both Rachael and David swell up with tears. But whatever sliver of hope gained flees like birds the second clunking, carelessly thrown footsteps clomp up the attic stairs.

All 3 captives become rigid with tension. In every other instance, they hadn't heard their kidnapper coming. He hadn't made a single sound before he was suddenly in their faces. Is this him again? Is he angry?

Mike abruptly rolls over, blocking both children from sight and becoming a human shield. Rachael can only just glimpse a tall person from underneath Mr. Crawford's arm, a tall person that clumps closer.

The tall figure stops a second just feet from the three, worry flooding his dimly-lit features. "What's wrong?" he murmurs, and crouches down slowly to their eye level. All of them get a clearer look of this guy. Dark iron-crisp shirt and slacks, shining black boots, like a uniform. He reaches down to his belt, they can see he has a belt now, and a second later a brilliant beam stabs through the darkness and slaps their faces. It takes a long moment for the kids and the other man to realize it's a flashlight.

"See? Nothing to be afraid of." The stranger whispers softly, the flashlight illuminating his face now. Not their kidnapper at all. His pale, stubble-covered face is strange in the glaring glow of the torch but its calm, caring. Not wild and desperate as their kidnapper's was. The faint glint of flashlight on his shirt catches their attention most: reflecting from a golden badge. A police badge.

Mike Crawford sucks in a breath, pushing himself up a bit. "P-Police?"

The policemen leans over to grip Mike's arm, so much a reassuring touch that Mike finally allows himself to breathe.

Police? A spark of relief burns so strong Rachael and David get the courage to lean around Mike's broad shoulders. Cause they're _okay_ now, the police have found them and he's gonna get them out of here, out of this house and—

The brown sacks the policeman sets carefully in front of them, the delicious, merciful smell of _food_ beckoning inside causes each of them blink in confusion. And he smiles warmly in response, explaining simply. "It's your dinner. Go on, eat." Then bewildered Rachael catches what's trickling down the sides of the policeman's face, oozing out slowly from inside his ears. Not crimson blood, its an ugly, rank black goo.

He grunts and stand up, oblivious to their looks of frozen shock. "And while you eat, I'm going to drop off gentleman off."

* * *

The Salem Police Department roiling with tension by the time Sam and Dean step in. Stressed officers rush around, scrambling for all information on the missing cases and committing everything to notes and case files. The few detectives in supply are on the phone with the victims' families, struggling to speak comfort and calm neighbors they've known all their lives.

An anxious faced, pudgy clerk glances guardedly at the abrupt appearance of the two strangers in suits, and that bleeds into her short, suspicion laced rasp. "What's your business here?" When Sam and Dean flash their FBI badges, the woman almost psychically melts into her swivel chair with relief. "Thank God." the 40 something woman let a huge sigh. "We weren't expecting anyone from the bureau. I thought you all said you were stretched thin and couldn't send anybody?"

"My partner and I finished up early on other cases so they went ahead and sent us here. It was last minute, sorry for the lack of communication." The complete "fed mask" Sam assumes is flawless. Business-like, no-nonsense, not a shred visibly of the shy, insecure kid he'd been just a couple years ago who dreamed of college and squabbled at Dean over poker games and credit scams. Dean shoves aside the painful tug in his chest and focuses on the clerk's rambling.

"We've never seen anything like this and we need help some experienced eyes. Who did you come to see? Detective Chilton or Sheriff Stallings?"

"Sheriff please." Dean injects. They don't have time to waste waiting for the detective. Dean's general rule of thumb as a hunter still is—as it was Dad's—the less time spent in cop's turf, the better.

"Alright, follow me." The rumpled secretary rises and shuffles down the hall, leading the brothers to the glass door crowned with gleaming gold letters: _SHERIFF STALLINGS_. A voice, presumably Sheriff Stallings', drawls on soberly just beyond the door. And judging by the softer, feminine-tinted response, he clearly isn't alone. The lilting rhythm of the female voice though…Dean's eyebrows crinkle suspiciously.

The office clerk taps her right thumb on the dimpled glass tentatively. "Sheriff Stallings? Federal agents are here for you."

Sheriff Staling's brogue halts a moment, harping out in confusion. "Feds? We weren't expecting any."

"They came late. And they'd like to see you now if you're willing."

"Tell them I won't be too long. Got to finish here with the detective first." The sheriff bats back.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't realize you were still in a meeting." The office clerk turns an apologetic stare the boys' way but Dean is too lost listening to the sheriff's conversation to notice her. Something about that barely audible second voice bugs him. He feels Sam's elbow nudge him in the side, probably a _get going, why are you still standing here_ hint. Screw leaving, all other instincts scream _stay._

 _"_ Alright Detective Blake, so your partner—the older gal who showed up with you with a few days ago—is missing and you can't remember a thing?" Dean catches the lawman's slow reiteration, the flat tone plainly suggesting the sheriff's skepticism.

A woman's restless, impatient sigh. " _Yes._ It sounds crazy, I get it. But I wouldn't be here if I honestly couldn't remember a damn thing after leaving this police station."

One sentence and Dean has the face to the voice. His hand shoots out and wraps around the door knob, pushing the door open amidst the clerk's noises of surprise and protest.

Jo Harvelle in the flesh sits erect and stiff across from Sheriff Stallings. Clad not in her usual hunter's jacket and jeans but instead a prissy, clean-cut business suit. Her normally flowing, loose hair is pinned neatly in a donut bun. What the hell, a donut bun? Dean's lips fall open in his shock, gasp fumbling from his mouth. "Jo?"

Stunned himself, Sam is lured into the office as if there's a magnetic pull.

Both Jo and the sheriff jerk to a stop at the interruption, both turning sideways in their chairs to stare the intruders over. The anxious, tight lines in Jo's features melt under a wave of complete astonishment. "Dean." she gasps, quickly rising. Her lips are still parted and look they're beginning to shake before she bites them shut, chestnut eyes a clear window of powerful emotions for a few open-hearted seconds. Until her hunter's instincts kick back in and she remembers where she was and who was watching.

Like the confused, narrow-eyed sheriff who promptly voices. "I'm sorry, you know each other?"

It takes too long for either brother to answer. Emotions they aren't prepared for are stirred up in both of them by seeing Jo so unexpectedly. It's the first time either Winchester has seen her since after Devil's Gate in Wyoming, a year ago. Might as well be a lifetime.

Jo turns back to the puzzled officer, expression struggling to resume its composure but her agitation is very obvious as her voice hitches. "Y-yeah, we worked together in the past."

The awkward quirk of the sheriff's mouth as his gaze regards the practically visible pressure between her and Dean pretty much speaks his assumption.

Jo recognizes where his thoughts go after a moment and almost smirks. Being mistaken as Dean's ex would be funny as hell, if it didn't somehow have a sting to it. But she decides not to correct the idea. In fact, it's just what she needs. "You know, I didn't realize the FBI were waiting on you. I'm just going to let you go on and get to them."

"You sure about that? What about your missing partner?" Sheriff Stallings frowns, doesn't know what to make of her, whether to be suspicious or pleased she's taking her bizarre story away with her.

"My partner is in the same place the other missing are. These agents," she gestures to Sam and Dean, "I've known the awhile. They're great guys, great detectives. If they're on the case, I know they'll find your missing persons. And mine. I'll let you guys get to work." Jo then brushes Dean, exchanging a swift glance with him and heads down the hall. She never stops and then she's out of sight.

Dean doesn't waste anytime taking control in the wake of confusion. "Yeah…" he steps up to the desk, playing up an embarrassed shirk. "Workplace relationships…big mistake." He takes the seat formally belonging to Jo. "I'm Agent Booth. Over there is my partner Agent Brennan. So where are you at right now in this investigation?"

Sheriff Stallings lets out a heavy sigh. "At my wit's end. Combed this whole town and the surrounding areas over twice for any sign of those kids. Chased down all the sex-offenders in the area, none of them pan out."

"What was Detective Blake saying about her partner? She said she went missing." Dean suddenly turns curt, anxious creases forming on his brow as he realizes... Fuck, its Ellen. Ellen's hunting with Jo now, he remembers. It's gotta be her.

Stallings snorts. "Don't know much about that. Those two came here about a couple days ago, said they'd had a case similar to ours in Nebraska. They wanted all our info, even what he didn't put in the papers then left. And today Detective Blake shows up, saying her partner's gone and she can't remember what happened after they left here. I just don't know. I guess she looked sincere but it just feels wrong to me."

"Maybe she got jumped and drugged?" Dean suggests, with a scowl. "You ever had that happen to you, Sherriff?" his dark gaze scrutinizes the small town cop. "I'll bet you haven't. You know roofie-Rohypnol, that'll screw up your head. Worst part is you don't remember taking it, someone could just slip it in your drink and you can't tell it's there. Until your vision starts spinning."

Doesn't take but a second for Chief Wiggum to backpedal, visibly shrinking at Dean's biting comeback. "I didn't mean to imply any deception. That is a real possibility."

"So, you found anything on Mike Crawford, the electrician?" Sam speaks up.

The lawman shakes his head dismissively. "There's no connection between the cases. And no, no clues on him either. We found his truck outside of town, his keys and wallet were still in it. Only thing gone was him."

"They all vanish from the same town, within a couple days of each other. Seems like a connection to me." Sam raises his eyebrows, implying the local police's foolishness for not seeing it.

Unsurprisingly, the sheriff's features scrunch up defensively, displaying his irritation at being all but called stupid. "Then you tell me the connection, Agent. All kidnappers, any sicko has an IMO that usually shows up in his victims. What's the IMO going by some regular guy whose parents I went to school with, that Detective and two kids?"

"Not sure, but right now we can't rule out any possible connection. You mind giving us a copy of the case files?"

"Suit yourself." Stallings huffs curtly and turns, burying his frown in the file drawer he searches through.

Dean twitches as he feels his leg buzz and slips his hand in his coat pocket. Pulling his phone up, the screen is glowing with a simple text. _Meet me outside when you're done. J._

 _"_ So Sheriff, the two kids who went missing, they go missing from the same spot?" He wanted to know.

"Pretty much." Stallings turns around and tosses the slim file on the desk. "They were just playing outside town, they and several others. David Crawford and Rachel Roche just vanished, no trace. The other kids...they had nothing useful to tell us."

Sam lifts his eyes from the file. "You sure they didn't see something and were just afraid to tell you?"

"Oh they told me what they thought they saw. Wasn't anything we could go on. You know kids, they're pretty imaginative."

"So?" Sam keeps after. "What did they think they saw?"

The policeman blew out an exasperated sound. "They said they saw somebody just snatch them and vanish. Literally vanish, entire body into thin air. It moved too fast to get a good look at whoever it was supposedly."

Now they were finally getting somewhere. Sam and Dean slip each other looks.

"You see why we're stumped? How the hell do we go on that?" Sheriff Stallings demanded, frustrated gaze burning into theirs.

"Well, that's why you got us." Dean leans forward in the chair, intense gaze meeting Stalling's eyes. "You do your thing, Sheriff. And we'll do ours."

With the case files now in hand and the added reality of their old friend waiting for them outside, Sam and Dean stand up.

"We'll call you if we get any leads, sheriff." Dean promises as he always does to every agent of the law they cross and throws the man one of their innumerable contact cards. "Let us know if you find anything new."

Sheriff Stallings nods politely but he really looks relieved to see them walk out.

"So, vanishing kidnapper, huh? You think we should pay those kids a visit next?" Sam mutters as they head down the hall.

Dean's barely listening, hustling his way through the dozens of officers packing the halls to the far away front door. "Yeah, yeah, later. We gotta find Jo."

Turns out it doesn't take long. Jo's car, some old Camaro that looks like it's straight from Bobby's salvage yard, is tucked away behind the police station. Jo herself is pacing restlessly by the driver's side door when Dean calls out to her, low enough to not draw attention. "Jo."

Jo instantly stills and lifts her head to see the brothers headed her way. "Guys." Her face lightens with stark relief and something akin to joy, her palms rub the sleek material of her slacks, nervously trying to curb the pent up emotion. "Long time, huh?" her chestnut eyes suddenly brim with unshed tears.

Sam and Dean both nod grimly, gazes clouded by the year's worth of horror, anguish and new scars. All three hunters just stare at each other for a long time, unblinking. Sam notices Jo and Dean's gazes slowly sweep each other over, soaking in every detail of the other's appearance like long-lost comrades.

"You…" Dean clears his suddenly clogged throat, lips forming an awkward attempt of a grin. "You've changed. You look different." Crap that sounded stupid. He can't seem to verbalize what the heck he means. For that matter, does he even know what he means? Cause right now his insides, or feelings…whatever you call them, are a fragmented mess. But not the heavy, unmistakable burn of rage, crippling fear, or the crushing guilt since Hell, that much he can distinguish.

Jo's lips turn up for a moment, amusement flickering in her welling eyes. "So do you. You…uh, look really good."

Dean's shoulders shrug simply, stare dropping and then rising again to meet her gaze. "You doing okay? Where's Ellen?' he demands gruffly, naked concern obvious in his tone while his features tighten with seriousness.

Jo crosses her arms, biting her lips so hard they nearly puncture and falters miserably. "I—I don't know. I can't remember what happened."

Both the brothers' insides clench at that ominous statement.

"Can't remember?" Sam speaks up, stare assessing her. "You talking like, amnesia?"

She huffs, angry lines creasing her forehead "Exactly. I remember leaving the station, that's it. Next thing I know I'm lying in the woods outside town and Mom's—just gone." Her lips shake, fingers raking through her bangs in frustration.

"The woods?" Dean growls, hands scrunching into balled fists. His hard glare locks on the Impala in the parking lot and his entire body shifts toward it, iron determination carved into his features. "We'll head there now. Maybe we can still find her."

Hardly a second passes before Sam's arm shoots out, tugging urgently on Dean's jacket. "Dean, hold on! Whatever thing or monster's in that forest, we need to know what the hell it is before we just go charging in there."

"We'll handle it like everything else. Beats sitting here twiddling our thumbs while that thing might be making Ellen its next meal!"

"So you just wanna rush in blind and get killed trying to save her?" Sam demands crossly, grip tightening in Dean's jacket fabric. "No more martyr crap, Dean!"

"Guys, stop!" Jo interrupts, smacking each on the arm. The brothers' attentions facture and lock onto her. Jo levels a sober eye into Dean, letting out a heavy breath. "Dean, Sam's right. Look at me. This isn't a bump on the head kind of thing—whatever took Mom _has_ to be connected to it. I don't know what kind of thing can just wipe out memories like this, do you? We gotta know what we're dealing with, Dean. Or we won't be saving anyone." One of Jo's hands comes up to rest on her hips, her lips pressing together to stop the swell of fear, eyes boring up into both brothers pleadingly. "So, let's team up?"

Sam quickly nods.

Dean however is in a serious struggle. His face twists, teeth clenching under the weight of his stubbornness against his hunter's sense. Jo and Sam wait and stare, hardly breathing, silently hoping Dean will listen to reason. Finally his jaw goes slack, a sign of surrender and he murmurs. "Ok. Where do we want to start?"

"Remember the newspaper?" Sam brings up, fingers at last releasing their hold on Dean. "How people have disappeared like this before?"

Dean's eyebrows furrow. "Yeah right, like 17 years ago. We can track the pattern down to the first."

Because all serial killers, man or beast, leave behind hidden clues whether they realize it or not among their trail of victims.

Jo throws a glance between the two of them. "So, public library?"

"Meet you there." Dean answers, making his way to the Impala—well, _would have_ gone that way but for Jo's hand catching his arm and stopping him cold. Not just catching it, hell, she held it prisoner within a grip you'd never think a woman was capable of. "You-ok?" he asked, nearly shrinking from Jo's overwrought expression.

Jo doesn't answer him, just flits imperious, almost desperate eyes Sam's direction. "Sam, you get a head start. We'll catch up." It's definitely a command.

The coward doesn't even try to fight her, not even question. No, Sam's features only grimace _knowingly_ at Jo's polite order and the little traitor turns his back on Dean—never once looking backwards—and abandons him. Ditches his older brother for the safety of the Impala far across the lot.

Dean's gaze now glues to the pavement blacktop, dread circulating in his hammering heart. Cause he doesn't wanna face what waits for him. He's not an idiot, Jo's sure as hell been bottling up all the crap she's been feeling since his deal came due. That emotional phone call at Bobby's weeks ago was only a taste. Nothing really tears you up like seeing a friend alive and whole after you last saw him dead and bloody. He should understand that more than anyone.

Only question is, what's all that hurt gonna manifest as? A punch to his face? Another dissolve into tears? Both?

It turns out to be none of them.

Jo lunges towards him but instead of a knuckled fist to his cheek or a stinging slap, Dean is shocked by the feel her arms wrapping around his stiff frame in that same powerful clutch. "Jo, what—" Dean grunts, lungs a little constricted by the pressure but Jo's grip on him only locks tighter. Her trembling head almost rests against his chest, like she wants to listen to proof that he's alive but a small amount of pride holds her back. "Jo?" he tries again, almost too soft to hear.

A shaky, almost sobbing inhale of air, followed by a suffocated swallow and Jo's face suddenly pulls back to look up at him. A lone tear from her welling eyes escapes, spilling down her cheek. "I-It's good to see you, Dean." she swallows, her voice bending a little.

Dean's heart twists painfully to see his friend this broken down, her every barrier…all levels of shields utterly stripped away, features contorted with still-fresh pain.

It's still a shock to him she's this torn up over his whole mess. Yeah, Jo and her mom were friends, they'd made it pretty clear since day one they both cared about the Winchesters, even after the sickening revelation their husband and father was dead because of the Winchester family. Heck, when Bobby had opened his trap about Dean's deal, Jo had promised she would help Dean find a way out of it—after she'd furiously slapped him in the face. So yeah, Jo cared, he got that. Maybe he just never let himself really _believe_ it.

Dean compresses his lips together, floundering for something comforting, or flirty, even witty to reply but nothing comes to mind. So he puts all the emotions he can't speak into the strong hug he pulls Jo into. He can feel Jo's body become rigid in his arms, undoubtedly with surprise, and then she melts against him. The two stay like that for a long moment, silently taking comfort from each other's presence, until Jo coughs noisily and tugs herself away from him.

Jo then steps back, quickly dragging the sleeve of her jacket across her eyes and shrugs her shoulders. "So, I'll meet you guys there."

"Yeah." Dean agrees, mouth pulling into a small grin. Jo hesitates, returns him with a half-smile of her own before turning back to her car.

Sam is sitting in the passenger's seat of the Impala when Dean finally walks up, and obviously too fixated on the dashboard. Pretending he hadn't been slipping glances over at Dean and Jo the whole time.

Dean flops down into the driver's seat, jabbing a menacing finger his brother's way. "You say one word, I'll kill you."

Prudently, Sam keeps his mouth shut.

The rumble of Baby as Dean starts her up never has been sweeter to his ears.

* * *

Darkness. Up against a solid wall of black. She's swimming. Sometimes floating. Damn it. Jo? Noises nearby. Small shuffling. A child's whimper. The hell?

Ellen Harvelle grimaces as her mind breaks the surface. Her first act is to snap her eyelids open and she's greeted by the same explosion of darkness she escaped from. Shit. What happened? She swallows her swelling lump of panic and cautiously tests her limbs and arms, finding each is functional. So, she's not dead or paralyzed, guess that's a positive.

She's aware now that her body is lying prone against some wood floor, she can tell that right off by the gritty surface. Ellen parts her lips, draws a breath into her nostrils that tastes of festering age, rotten mold, and years of dust and grime. Like some God-forsaken abandoned house.

Shit. Ellen's hunter-seasoned mind scrambles to reconnect to her last memory. Jo. She'd been hunting with her daughter, they were checking out some town in southern Missouri, Salem. Some guy and two kids had vanished? She chased all memories of the case. They weren't hard to find.

" _So, is that it?" Jo tilted the butt of her shotgun against her shoulder and stared ahead at the long forgotten, neglected piece of history from Salem. It'd taken some digging but they finally found it, and the lair of the sick bastard tormenting this town._

Childish screams rip her reminiscence apart. Ellen jolts, pushing herself upwards and lunges right into a large, cradling palm of a hand. Ellen freezes as that hand, a man's, caresses the side of her face, lovingly sliding over her forehead and cheek.

Its owner's features catch a scattering of light that filters from above. Pale cheeks splattered with blood, dark disheveled hair, but all of that was nothing to the disturbing power of his eyes. Hollow, fixated on Ellen and glowing with a possessive yearning.

"Hello, Mother. I've missed you."

 **To be Continued...**

* * *

 _Author's Note_ **:** _haha! Did i leave you all in suspense? I hope so. So, this is my FIRST case fic! I'm so freaking excited about this. This has been brewing in me for some time since I started missing Ellen and Jo terribly on the show. T_

 _This should be a 2-maybe 3 chapter story, though I can't promise very prompt updates. Unfortunately, RL is a little busy right now: sister's wedding, studying and stuff. But hey, I'll get it done. Good feedback helps too._

 _Feedback for this story is much loved and appreciated! Even constructive criticism!_


	2. Chapter 2: Not Real Chapter (note)

Alright, I know those of you followers and fans probably have been wondering why I'm not updating my current projects.

So I'm writing to give you guys some news, and I'm sorry, it's not good. As far as I can tell, I really don't think I'll be doing any other stuff on the Supernatural fandom because of several reasons—the foremost being that ever since the laughably disappointing season 11, my love for the show has dwindled so much that my muse has left the fandom and shows no hope or inclination of returning. And I have found that I cannot continue to write about a show I no longer feel passion about.

To the followers of my stories, I'm so sorry. I really would like to finish Its Alright, I'm Just a Little Crazy and others someday but at this point in time, I cannot.

Thank you for all your comments and love.


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